


The Carelessness of Caring

by exbex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I like to think of this as a prequel to "Always Misses Something" but it can stand alone as well. Diverges from canon sometime during S1.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Carelessness of Caring

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think of this as a prequel to "Always Misses Something" but it can stand alone as well. Diverges from canon sometime during S1.

John is not in the habit of snooping, except for the times Mycroft informs him of the possibility of a danger night, and those, thankfully, are few and far between these days. So when he opens the sketchpad that he finds sitting on a desk in 221b, he’s not snooping. It actually looks like a notepad; there’s nothing about it that would identify it as belonging to a particular person, it looks brand new, so John assumes that he’ll find crisp, new, empty pages when he opens it. And in his mind, upon seeing that the pages aren’t empty, it isn’t so much snooping as it is justifiable curiosity, since the pages contain sketches of himself, or a version of himself anyway. The man in the sketches looks much better naked than what John sees in the mirror. Granted, John figures that he’s in relatively good shape, but the body of the man in the drawings is chiseled, muscles perfectly defined. John knows that he’s a decent-looking bloke, but he figures if he were even one-fifth as appealing as the figure on the pages, he wouldn’t have as much trouble keeping a steady girlfriend.

Even if each of the sketches had not had the initials MH written inconspicuously in every corner, John would not have to be a Holmes to deduce who the artist is, as one of the sketches features not only the Adonis version of John, but an Adonis version of Mycroft. It’s an alluring picture; the Mycroft figure is penetrating the John figure from behind, and grasping the John figure’s cock with one hand and using his other hand to turn the John figure’s face toward his own face. The John figure has an interesting look on his face; was blissful and overwhelmed simultaneously. John figures that the Mycroft figure must be well-endowed, or at the very least, extremely skilled.

John closes the book and thinks for a moment. So Mycroft has deduced that John was bisexual and liked to take it up the bum. Not exactly surprising, and not upsetting, seeing as John had ceased to become embarrassed by the deductions of Holmes brothers quite some time ago. He makes a decent attempt, a true, earnest attempt, to talk himself out of the next course of action. It could only end badly. Mycroft was a dangerous man, as Sherlock had once told him, and he was his best friend’s brother. No, it’s a terrible idea, absolutely dangerous.

So of course John takes out his phone and composes a text message.

I’m amenable to the position on page ten of your sketchbook. Just name the time and place. JW

John stashes the sketchbook in his room. He doesn’t know if Sherlock knows anything about Mycroft’s interest, but as Sherlock isn’t one to enter John’s bedroom, John figures it’s the best course of action. John goes out an hour later for milk, and for once isn’t averse to the black car creeping up on him. Indeed, he feels a little thrill go through him when he slides into the backseat and Mycroft is there.

“John.” That posh voice has increased in its level of sexiness. John gives Mycroft a cheeky grin. He still has the voice telling him that this is a terrible idea, but it’s being shouted down by a voice that’s reminding him that Mycroft, of all people, would be just as likely to be discrete and business-like about these things as he is likely to use such things as future blackmail material.

“I trust that we can come to an agreement John,” Mycroft continues. “I’m prepared to pay a considerable sum.”

John deflates inwardly at first, then feels the anger begin. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

Mycroft looks as if the conversation physically pains him. “If you require a certain...sum, in order to guarantee your silence and return the sketchbook, I’m prepared to meet your demands with a minimum of bargaining.”

John blinks. The day has already been surprising enough without this added bizarreness. Clearly this is some kind of test, but John doesn’t feel up to playing games. “Why did you plant the sketchbook in 221b if you weren’t going to take me up on my offer?” He feels the anger simmering again. “Don’t play games with me Mycroft, not about this.”

It’s Mycroft’s turn to blink, surprised. “John…I…I had no intention of…having you discover…”

It sinks in, suddenly, and it’s unbelievable. A man like Mycroft Holmes doesn’t accidentally leave a sketchbook featuring a variety of drawings of his brother’s flatmate in a place where the flatmate could access them. That is, unless Mycroft fails to resemble his brother in a very significant way. It makes sense, suddenly. Sherlock’s rail thin frame and his disinterest in the desires of the flesh, as it were.

“It’s not just transport,” John says. Life can still surprise him; Mycroft Holmes just might be the more human of the two Holmes brothers.  
Mycroft, impossibly, appears to be speechless.

“So you really didn’t intend to leave the sketchbook?”

Mycroft’s continued speechlessness is enough of an answer. The pause is long and awkward, and the awkwardness does not abate when Mycroft finally speaks. “I would appreciate it, John, if you would keep the sketchbook in a safe place until I can retrieve it.” The tone leaves no room for interpretation; it’s clearly not an option.

**

John isn’t as dimwitted as Holmes brothers might believe him to be, he simply doesn’t process details in rapid-fire manner like Sherlock and Mycroft. His disappointment hits him on the walk home, and the severity of it surprises him. He spends the next few days trying to shake a mopey feeling.

It takes these few days for Mycroft to text him with a warning that he’s about to stop by 221b for the book. He’s obviously been waiting for an opportune moment in which   
Sherlock is gone but has not taken John with him. John can’t help but idly wonder why Mycroft doesn’t nip in when they’re both gone; he’s clearly embarrassed about the sketches and has the means to retrieve the book. John takes the book from its hiding place and looks at the drawings for only the second time, flipping through a bit more slowly. 

John, as a rule, is not one prone to constant epiphanies. They are rare, but he knows how to recognize them when they happen. It’s the drawings that are less explicit that light the spark, particularly one that shows John asleep, relaxed, covered to the waist with a sheet, peaceful. John examines it carefully. He has never been one to analyze art, to have a real appreciation for it, but it’s obvious even to him that this is not merely the result of someone’s lust and curiosity.

There’s a polite knock on the door. John carefully closes the book and makes his way to the door. Mycroft enters and for the first time John can look at him without some kind of overwhelming emotion, whether of trepidation, irritation, fury, or lust, and he wonders why he never saw what he sees now, why it’s never been obvious that his brolly, his bespoke suit, his body language, are all shields. He waits until they’ve exchanged their few pleasantries, until Mycroft has secured the book beneath one arm.

“I know I have a ridiculous nickname from my army days, and I know what my proposition was a few days ago, but I am capable of something beyond casual sex.”

Mycroft was in the process of turning towards the door, had stopped when John began speaking, and now slowly turns back to him. “Your history of relationships would indicate otherwise.”

John isn’t fazed. “Most people don’t understand how it is between Sherlock and me. You’re not most people.”

“You’re being persistent for a man who has spent a certain amount of time insisting that he’s not gay.”

“I’m not; I’m bisexual. Which is something that you already deduced. What I don’t like are assumptions, which maybe you haven’t deduced.”

Mycroft really looks at him now, his expression hard and serious, suddenly broken by the hint of a smile. “Are you asking me on date, John Watson?”

John returns the smile. “I am. When are you free?”

“I’ll be in touch,” Mycroft replies, and John swears he sees a bit of reluctance when Mycroft turns away this time.


End file.
